I think that sometimes, no matter how badly we want to erase scars: we just can’t. They become a part of us, a part of our life; engraved in our hearts, our minds. Scars we created ourselves; created by others. Scars… parts and pieces of our lives which once belonged to us, no longer ours. And then, there’s the “healing” or the process of forgetting they’re there- pretending they’re not ours- being strong, some may say. But is it? Is it being strong? I think not. I find myself searching for a cure in all of the wrong places, seeking refugee in all of that which will give me shelter only temporarily. Afraid to look in the right places because of the things that I may find; Things I may not want to hear. Things I may not want to feel. Things I may not want to see; to accept… And in my heart i’ll carry these things, to many known as denial. To many my refugee may be nothing more than cardboard shelter, one that may eventually collapse, leaving me lifeless. Leaving me in the obscurity of my own selfish needs. In the betrayal of my mind, which only seeks to find comfort in that which is temporary.